


Silver and Velvet

by alyxpoe



Series: Always and Forever [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Gen, John's POV, Leather, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP-almost, Post-Reichenbach, biker porn, eye-fucking, men having sex, men kissing, porn with feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s gazing at me as intently as any would-be criminal and I know I’ve got to look my fill because once this spell is broken, it will never happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I walk home barely paying attention to anything around me. Right now all I seem to have the energy to do is watch my shoes as they move forward on the pavement; the cold rain pelts the back of my neck. I was completely unprepared for today’s monsoon because I woke up late and only had time to throw on some clothes and then rush down for my incredibly dull shift at the A&E. I am so accustomed to being woken up early to run some errand or other for my insane flatmate _before_ going into work that his absence the last four days is weighing heavily on me. It is tough for me to admit it to myself, even, but the two of us have barely been apart longer than an eight-hour work shift since Sherlock Holmes decided to no longer be dead.

I find that I am standing still down the road from Baker Street, in the pouring rain, quietly chuckling. I am sure that I look like I’ve gone completely mad. Perhaps I have. There are days when I want to shout from the rooftops and other days I’ve considered the implications of murdering the man in his sleep. Maybe that’s why he only sleeps a few hours at a time.

No, really. What we have is _good_. I’ve got my best friend back from the dead, a second chance that I see as the greatest gift—besides my own life—that I’ve ever been given. I’ve got six feet of lanky…what? I start walking again as the rain changes to a slower tempo, trying and failing to come up with an appropriate animal to compare him to. _Housecat_ is on the tip of my tongue, but, really, since that implies _domesticated_ , I can’t even go there. Sherlock may not, in any way, shape or form, ever be considered domesticated. Granted, since he’s come home, there have been some changes in him—nearly all of them subtle; on the whole, though, the flat isn’t nearly as cluttered with body parts and experiments as it was before. Books, files and stacks of paper still manage to appear of their own accord, though even those have a tendency to disappear or—wonder of all wonders—get put up on the shelves. Though whether there really is any organization to the chaos is open to interpretation.

It is these little things that make me ridiculously happy.

Honestly, though, some days I am so glad to be able to look across the room at him sprawled delectably across the sofa with his fingers steepled in front of his chin and even I have to admit that pose just draws attention to those lips. Sometimes its hours before he opens his eyes, but, God, just seeing the spark of life in them again…how do I even explain that?

I tried to write it out on the blog, honestly. Five times.

Five times I found myself going back and changing words like _delectable_ to _endearing_ and _sultry_ to _pouty_ …and, well, I gave up after that. It is so obvious to me how I really feel, but I am uncharacteristically _terrified_ for him to see. I don’t want to lose him again, especially from something so asinine as my libido’s inability to stay at a low roar every time I am forced to watch that posh arse flit around Lestrade’s office like he’s on the damned cat walk, his entire being lit from within as he chases the threads of a new case.

I wouldn’t trade it for all the sex in the world. One of these days, I’ll get back out there. It has only been a few months and we are still readjusting to one another. It would be unfair to go get off with someone else while Sherlock is home alone.

That’s my favorite justification, anyway.

Finally home, I yank on the old black door a little until it gives with a groan. I step over the threshold and fight the impulse to shake off the excess water like a dog, because Mrs. Hudson is peeking out of her door and she is eyeing the tiles beneath my feet. Times like this, she reminds me of my very stern, very devoutly Catholic grandmother, Mary Louise. I give her what I’m sure amounts to a sheepish grin and she walks over to give me a swat on the arm.

“You boys, so messy!” She gives me a fond look. “Wait a minute.” I kick off my shoes and notice another set of footprints going up the steps to our flat and my mouth is suddenly dry, then my hands are filled with a bowl of piping hot homemade bread slices and a jar of…is that honey?

“Is that honey?” I have to ask.

“Yes, John, I know you weren’t raised in a barn, but I do expect you to know what honey is when you are presented with it.” Mrs. Hudson puts her hands on her hips and does her best impression of the Sherlockian you-are-an-idiot scowl. I kiss her cheek just to watch her get flustered and she swats at me again, smiling.

“Oh, go on with you.” She pointedly looks up the stairs.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” I start up.

“Oh, and John…” She calls.

I stop on the fifth step. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” The smell of this bread is making me practically drool. Lunch was an awful long time ago.

“As soon as the weather lets up, I am meeting Mrs. Turner and the girls at the new bookstore for Bridge. I’ll be gone at least until ten.” She waves at me and gives me a wink.

What the hell? Did I just step out into some new universe where my landlady is…what?

I stop that train right there on the tracks and juggle the items in my hands in order to open the door, glad I left my briefcase down in the foyer.

It is dim inside the flat, and I can see the outline of my detective sprawled on the couch. I pass through to the kitchen and return to the sitting room with a piece of this wonderful bread. Sherlock has been gone long enough that he may actually be asleep, so I start a fire in the room, thinking about those drippy footprints and wonder how long he’s been home. He could probably tell from the drying rate of the raindrops or something, but I can only guess that it’s been less than an hour.

I find myself watching the growing fire for a few moments after pulling my armchair closer to it. Sherlock’s baritone is husky when he finally either becomes aware of my presence or decides to acknowledge it. Either way, I’m glad it’s mostly dark in here and I’m sitting down.

“John.” He says to me and I find myself turning to face him like a marionette on strings. I think he knows exactly what his voice does to me.

When my eyes adjust, what I see in front of me threatens to make my heart stop.

The firelight dances over Sherlock as he reclines on the couch, but that’s not what trips me up. The man is clad from neck to toe in what appears to be _black leather_ that has got to be as buttery-soft under the fingertips as it looks. I want to say _Can I touch, please?_ I manage to keep the words locked between my teeth.

One of those impossibly long legs is stretched out and a tall, black biker boot is resting on the floor. The left leg is bent at the knee, the boot sole against the arm of the couch. My eyes follow his lines until I am magnetically trapped by the single button undone at his waist. The trousers hang low enough on his hips that I can see a few black curls teasing at me below his navel.

I know I’ve just licked my lips.

He’s gazing at me as intently as he does any would-be criminal and I know I’ve got to look my fill because once this spell is broken, it will never happen again.

A line of pale flesh peeks from between the wings of an unbuttoned vest that matches the trousers. Only the slightest hint of silver from the snaps flashes as he makes the tiniest movement. The warm darkness of the sitting room whispers in my ears, telling me I’m taking advantage of an exhausted man who has certainly been working non-stop…my brain is in agreement that I need to cease and desist and go have a cold shower…yeah, but _other_ parts are screaming the need to finish undoing that button-fly. I should be worried about him being able to hide this much obviously custom-made leather from me.

Seriously.

As if that weren’t enough to kill me on the spot, my eyes are dragged farther up, away from that chest to a neck bared to me and decorated with a silver beaded chain. Deep in the back of my mind, I recognize my old dog tags. Doesn’t matter. Not right now. Something primal is sneaking up my spine. 

That tipped-up chin is artfully dressed with a shadow of stubble of a color I can only imagine.

I don’t remember moving, but I see my hand laying against that razor-sharp cheekbone and those green eyes are ethereal in the light. He moves forward, putting his face into my hand, but not dropping the eye contact.

So this is what an eye-fuck feels like.

It’s marvelous.

He’s done something to his hair, the color is off. It is not light nor auburn-coppery in the firelight, but its been cropped a bit so that the curl now wrapped around my index finger is tight and neat. This is not _brown_ , it’s dark honey silk with amber highlights. Sherlock exhales and I am a _right there_. It occurs to me then that though my clothes are still damp; the back of my neck is hot and sweaty.

“Where have you been?” I whisper; it’s a benediction.

“Case.” Warm breath that smells of mint caresses my ear.

When did his lips get so close to my face?

I’m done for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mad consulting prince of leather fucking growls at me then his hand is back on my neck...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it matters, I changed the rating to explicit. I never expected such a welcome for this story! Thank you all so much, I hope I don't disappoint!

Sherlock surges upward and wraps one of those big hands around the nape of my neck and hauls me towards his mouth, his fingers tight against my skin, but not enough to hurt. I find myself in the odd position of being held in place from the bottom; I’m not too fussed about it, however, because my hips are grinding against a leather-clad thigh that is kindly being offered up with equal fervor.

I squirm and manage to adjust myself so that I’m balanced over his torso on my right hand; my left one has decided it has a mind of its own and I gasp into his mouth as I palm the impressive bulge beneath that button-fly. Dying this way doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea right about now. When he makes a whimpering sound in the back of his throat, I am barely hanging on to my composure.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” I curl my fingers into the velvety leather as much as possible without hurting him and his hips buck upward into my hand. We are no longer actually kissing, his plush mouth is right up against mine, sharing the air from my lungs. I rub against the bulge tenderly and the realization that there is _nothing_ now between my hand and Sherlock’s stiff cock _except_ leather manages to ratchet my libido even higher. I can feel _everything_ ; I can virtually _see_ all of it. I run my thumb across the place where I am certain the head of his cock is pushing against the button fly. That cannot be too comfortable so I lightly slip a finger between the buttons and he gasps then makes that needy noise again and I have got to see this. Right now.

I pull back enough to look him in the eye and even in the light from the fire I can see that his cheeks are flushed and the pupils of his eyes are so large they’ve almost obliterated the olivine irises.

I’ve had a lot of sex. I didn’t come by that stupid nickname because I was an innocent bystander to the entire range of human sexual expression, honestly; but that noise? I’ve never heard that in my life. I want to eat him alive.

Sherlock must know what his intense gaze and absolutely decadent mewling is doing to me, because his legs are locked around my waist and the weight of those boots is anchoring me to the spot. I’m pretty sure that my hips are no longer under the control of my brain. He’s got hold of the back of my neck again and is all but pouring me into his mouth. If I’m already dead, I hope no one is rude enough to tell me until whatever _this_ happens to be is over.

Rutting like teenagers is releasing enough heat between us that somewhere I've noticed my shirt front is dry. Now that I’ve thought about my shirt, I’d like to get it off. My very next thought is _leather vest._ The overwhelming urge to _see_ is fiercer than before. I push myself upward but he tightens his legs against me and pulls. Good God, I knew the man was strong but this is like being in a fucking vise.

“Sherlock, give me a mo.” His eyes flutter and I’m mesmerized by those long eyelashes that really don’t belong on a man. The smarmy bastard opens his eyes fully then sensuously _writhes_ , shoving that hard, leather-clad cock against my groin. His kiss-reddened tongue pokes out between his lip then he sinks his teeth into the bottom one and _moans_. I’m sliding the very last button on my shirt through the hole when he goes completely still beneath me. I can’t breathe. His forehead is creased and dotted with tiny glistening drops of sweat. Sherlock is staring at me with that expression that tells me he is looking right through my skull clear to the other side of the sitting room.

A sudden thought occurs to me: if this is some sort of game, some experiment, then I need to put an end to it right now before it goes too far. I stop my own movements completely. I want to ask him, and I need all of my concentration…

Oh. Through my trousers and pants, I just felt that burning hot…hot, hard, cock fucking _throb_.

“John. You know I want you,” he says with a voice as smoky as his eyes have gone there beneath me; right there beside the firelight. I lean down and kiss first one side of his mouth and then the other. I want him looking in my eyes when I ask, because if nothing else, I _will_ know if he is lying to me.

“Is this a game, Sherlock?” I ask in the calmest manner possible. He is grinding against my arse, so I’m fairly proud of the fact that I sound even somewhat in control.

The mad consulting prince of leather fucking _growls_ at me then his hand is back on my neck, pressing my face against his with only enough space in between us to breathe.

“Not with you, John. Never with you.” His lips brush against mine with each word. From this distance, I can see the fire reflected in his eyes and the honesty beneath. I kiss him again, and this time I let it all out—everything that I’ve tried to hide since he came home. He stills as I pass my tongue between his lips, searching, probing, tasting. The smell of mint I noted earlier matches the taste deepest in his mouth. He may not be moving, but I can tell that he is learning.

After a moment, his tongue hesitantly presses against mine. He figures out what I enjoy quick enough and it becomes a sort of wrestling match. Then his fingers are pulling against my buttocks, pushing up and then pulling me down against him; I ride the crash of the tidal wave for a bit then I pull away from his mouth to nuzzle and lick my way down that neck until I encounter the coolness of the dog-tag chain. This time, when he goes quiet, even his hips stop moving. He’s tense.

“Sherlock, I am not upset that you took them,” I say as I press my lips against the pulsing artery in his neck. “Only that you felt that you couldn’t ask me.”

“Oh.” He whispers and his fingers go back to work. It takes him no time at all to unzip my fly and reach in through the opening on my y-fronts to grasp my own aching cock. The instant his fingers move against it, at first gentle and then tightening, my entire body begins to tremble. I won’t last long this way and I really, really have no desire to get off in these still partially-damp work trousers.

Sherlock stops and pulls his hands away from me, resting them on my shoulders. After another very deep kiss, he pushes against me. I know I’m normally pretty slow on the uptake, but that is unmistakable.

“Bedroom?” I manage to stammer as I am pushed into the sofa to allow Sherlock out from under me. He nods but doesn’t move, just stands there with his hands at his sides, staring at me from under heavy eyelids. Ignoring my demanding prick for a minute, I allow my eyes to sweep over him—from those heavy and incredibly shiny boots, up his legs…and then I seem to get stuck on his crotch. Between the straining buttons of the fly of those leather trousers that I can now see seem to be _painted_ on his taut thighs, I imagine the deep red flush of a proud but needy erection. 

In the flickering shadows of the fire, Sherlock turns his hands with the palms toward me as if he is indicating said groin, and I can’t move fast enough. In no time at all, I am on my knees with my fingers against the silver buttons. There’s only one way to do this, really, and that is _slowly._ Like opening a most contemplated gift at Christmas, I slide those four buttons out of the button holes. As each one gives, Sherlock sighs. I don’t dare look at him but I do dare touch the tip of my tongue against each bit of flesh that is revealed. Once the trousers are now clinging to his hips by some rule of gravity I don’t understand, Sherlock steps back a pace and holds out one foot as he balances on the other. I marvel at the ability to do just that when I know he’s running on less than five hours of sleep and barely any nourishment and promise myself that I will get to that, and very soon. I grasp the back of his thigh and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of hard muscle under the soft leather.

In the meantime, I am faced with the boots he’s wearing. They have a zipper running up the inside. I unzip the first one and tug it off of him; secretly thrilled they don’t lace up because I’d probably pull out my old army knife and just slice through the laces. He’s got thick, deep purple socks on which makes me laugh. I strip those off of him, too, one at a time, after each boot and allow my fingers to linger on the arches of his feet. When I move back and look up, he is wearing his patented take-you-apart expression.

I want to lick it off his face. “Bedroom?” I ask again while I’m still coherent enough to get up off of the floor. It seems to be the only word I can form at the moment.

Instead of an answer, he pulls off the vest and drops it on the floor next to his boots. The lining on the inside is silk of the same color as his socks. I am absolutely sure that the color purple is going to give me raging hard-ons the rest of my life. He holds out a hand towards me and I get up with probably a lot less grace than I would have even ten years ago, but at this point I am past caring. He walks backward, holding onto my hands.

My eyes travel from his face where he is wearing the most open expression I have seen since the night he came home; and then down to those ebony trousers that are gaping open to allow his now-dripping cock to swing free of them. He opens his bedroom door with a hand behind his back and we cross to his bed in three steps. I drop my own trousers and pants right there, glad I took my shoes off before I started the fire.

Sherlock wraps himself around my torso and tugs me downward. It is a fast tussle that I miraculously lose and I soon find that I am pinned beneath him. No matter, I think as he pulls me into another kiss, because this time I can grab a handful of that posh arse I’ve watched entirely too many times. I knead at his buttocks and he hisses between his teeth. The feeling of the supple leather at the top of my hands and the tight, muscular globes under my palms is a contrast that is so much the detective himself. He pulls out of our kiss and begins to worry the side of my neck with his teeth. I tilt my head backward and decide in that second that following his lead has never really steered me wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John.” Deep, gravelly and pure sex. I never knew my name in that tone could sound so erotic.

It is darker in Sherlock’s bedroom, much darker than the sitting room. Beyond the single window, I can make out the muffled tells of the life of our city beyond our walls. A tiny bit of light from the street outside is enough for me to see Sherlock’s face when he pulls up and away from the side of my neck. For all of the hot fervor a minute ago, things seem to have slowed considerably. His breathing is more even—almost as if, now that we are here, we can take our time. He is studying me again.

I’m perfectly okay with that. As okay as I am when I draw his face back down to mine and hold him there so that I can touch those cheekbones, run one finger down the center of his aquiline nose and then around those kiss softened lips.

That clever tongue touches my fingertip, pulling a moan from the middle of my chest. Sherlock chuckles with a warmth that will cause me to melt where I stand every time I hear it for the rest of my life. He smirks down at me then tilts his head and mouths at my collar bone…warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses. His hair tickles the side of my face, this hair that seems to be what I’ve always dreamt about touching, but it’s different, too. The color that I can just make out doesn’t suit him, not like the mysterious ebony curls normally found in a messy halo around his head. I run my fingers through it until I rest my palm against the nape of his neck; he hums against my skin.

I’m a doctor but I had no idea that the nerves in the epidermis above one’s collar could be felt in one’s groin. Apparently, it can.

“Your hair.” I gasp.

“Mmmmm….” Is his reply; he nips at me then stares, obviously deciphering the meaning of my words. I’m not really even sure myself, at this point.

“Case, John.” He mutters, closing his eyes and resting the side of his face against my chest.

Case. Of course. As if I would have forgotten in the last five minutes. I adjust myself so that I push upward against him and flip him over before he has the chance to react. We are now in the center of his bed and until now I’ve never noticed how _huge_ this thing really is.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” A gentleman always asks, right? Suddenly, there are many things I need to know, but that one is paramount.

I rest myself on the palms of my hand so that his mouth is more easily accessed. He’s got one broad palm spread over the curve of my arse and the other has returned to the back of my neck; his hands are warm and they feel absolutely amazing. This time it’s my turn to break the kiss. I reach down between us and grasp his rigid cock, and this time when his head goes back I set my teeth to the side of that neck and suck. Sherlock does that needy mewling thing again and bucks into my hand. I want to see him come; I want to see him lose control and know that _I_ did that to him. I stroke him slowly, tightening and loosening my fingers erratically while he whimpers; I alternate between kissing his mouth and his neck.

Just before he comes, his eyes close and the muscles in his neck tighten. He shoves his hips up into my hand and stills, the muscles of his legs shaking from the force of his orgasm. Sherlock’s teeth clench in the flesh of my shoulder. When he finally climaxes, wet spurts of semen coat my hand yet I don’t stop stroking until his bucking stops. He drops flat onto the bed and all I can do is curl up on his side and hold onto him.

I pet his hair, his face, his chest. I tell him he is the most amazing person I’ve ever known in my life, that I’m not exactly sure where this is going between us and that I will do whatever he needs.

But, he already knows that. After a few moments he opens those eyes and gives me a look of utter fascination; the one he usually reserves for serial killers, and…

Well, for those who are long gone and will never be heard from again, because, frankly, if they are _ever_ heard from again, they are going to meet the business end of my gun and I’ll never be ashamed or the least bit guilty about killing them.

“John.” Deep, gravelly and pure sex. I never knew my name in that tone could sound so erotic.

“Sherlock.” I answer as I roll to one side to better see his face.

“I’ve always wanted this. You.” He gestures between us. “Before. But.”

Since when does Sherlock Holmes not speak in coherent sentences? Damn. I place my hand on the side of his face.

“Alright.” I say. “Why now?”

He smiles at me in a most dreamy, relaxed manner. “Because, it is over John. You are safe now.” With that, he pushes me over and sweeps all of the questions that are now coalescing in my mind out of my mouth with his tongue.

“They.” Kiss. “Are.” Kiss. He moves down my neck, planting small kisses and nips as he goes. Of course the mad scientist would be a biter. “All.” Nip. “Dead.” A long lick down the center of my chest that stops at the base of my cock; oh my God, it has got to be so wrong to be aroused by that mouth saying those words. My brain then goes completely off line when he wraps those amazing lips around my aching cock and _sucks_.

“Ah!” The unsexiest word of all time bursts from me and I can’t stop my hips from bucking upward. He rears up and puts his hands on my hips and pins me to the mattress. I’ve seen that look before, but only when I disturbed yet another dust mote experiment. Yeah, well, that was a pretty rude thing to do, but the bastard caught me completely by…

Jesus, Mary and all the Saints. I can’t breathe.

Oh my God. I believe he just swallowed around the head of my cock.

My orgasm completely blindsides me. Sherlock’s talented mouth continues to milk me until I put a hand in his hair and beg for mercy. He holds the base of my softening prick in his fist and slowly pulls off, gazing at me the whole time. Fucker looks really smug. These tremors in my legs are new; I do believe I have just been _ruined_ … I can’t even….


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pillows don’t move.” Sherlock informs me as he nuzzles in even closer.

Warm. The whole universe is warm. And sort of soft. There’s something wet on the back of my neck.

Something wet that feels like its _breathing_. That’s an interesting feeling on my bare spine.

What the hell…

Oh!

I reach back to find a lean torso pressed so close to my back that I’m sure I’ve got nipple and chest hair imprints in my skin. Long arms encircle my chest so that I am lying on the left one. Tiny huffs of breath tickle the back of my neck as Sherlock begins to stir. I roll my shoulders a bit only to find that inside of loosening up, those arms around me actually tighten.

“Pillows don’t move.” Sherlock informs me as he nuzzles in even closer. I don’t understand how anyone’s morning voice can sound so tempting but then a picture flashes through my mind of how I fell asleep last night. The instant replay in my brain is even better and I groan. There’s an annoyed huff at my back.

“Jaaawwwnnnnn….you are a terrible pillow!”

Sherlock finally lets go enough that I can roll over and look at him. He is stretched out, staring at the ceiling. I prop myself up on my elbow. His shorter, browner hair is absolute chaos, there’s two very large lovebites on his neck (I can feel myself blush) and he is bare to the waist.

“You slept in _those_?” I ask when I can get enough oxygen to my brain to speak. Let’s face it, I’ve apparently always had a thing for leather, but leather that’s been practically painted on Sherlock? I’m toast.

He just looks up at me from beneath those lashes and smirks. My hand starts to drift south of the border but he laughs and pulls away. He’s out of the bed and sauntering towards the loo so fast. No one should be able to wake up be that coherent prior to caffeine intake of some sort. Git. He stops right in front of the door and drops those trousers, obviously putting on a show. I have a very short argument with myself. Half of me really wants to go join him in the shower, but the other half insists on staying right here in these still-warm sheets and rest. Besides, though he was oblivious to personal boundaries last night doesn’t mean we should avoid _that_ conversation completely. I make the mistake of burrowing down against the actual pillow Sherlock half-used last night and fall back to sleep to the sound of the water running.

*

Whump!

“John!”

“John, get up!”

There’s the sound of material skimming in the air and then my face is covered by one of my shirts. I search around the immediate area with one hand before opening my eyes. This feels like one of my jumpers. And, what’s that? I open one eye. Oh. Clean pants. The mattress dips. Soft, hot lips caress my own. It’s a hint of a kiss.

We’ll not be having that. I grab Sherlock’s face and reel him for a real kiss this time. Now I understand why breathing is _boring_ , but since I need to do it in order to survive, I let go of him and finally open my eyes to a wonderful sight.

Sherlock’s dressed in a royal purple button-down that is tucked into another pair of black leather trousers. This pair has a zip fly and is completely free of any dried evidence from last night. How many pairs of these things does he own?

“Step back.” I order. He complies. The same black boots from last night and there’s a similar pair beside them on the floor.

“These are yours. They should fit.” Ok, I’m awake now. I grab my clothes; thankfully he’s only supplied me with an old pair of jeans because I don’t think I’d make it out the door in leather. I take a fast shower. When I open the curtain, it is to find my insane flatma—well. That ship certainly has sailed.

“Sherlock, what do you want me to call you?” I ask as I towel myself off.

“Anything but Freak.” He answers sagely with a frown.

I laugh as I slip into my pants and jeans. “Not what I meant.” I tell him before brushing my teeth.

“Oh.” He hasn’t moved from his seat on the toilet lid. Just crosses his legs so that the weak sunlight from the opaque window above the toilet causes the silver hardware on his boots to shine. The brown hair that I’m never going to get used to is silky and clean, neat in tight ringlets except for a single one that is lying rebelliously over his eye. He reflects inward for a few moments as I shave my face.

“I hate the term _boyfriend_. We aren’t twelve years old.” Sherlock frowns.

“Partner, then.” I say.

He doesn’t answer this time, but nods his head. He stands up and smacks my arse as he passes me. I button my shirt and pull my jumper over my head in time to see the boots land at my feet. I peer at them.

“Socks?” I shout. A pair of thick white socks sails through the air. I catch them and slip them on, then sit on the side of the tub to pull on the boots. They do fit very well. Mine lace up, though, so it takes a few seconds to get myself settled.

“Coming John?” Sherlock calls from the sitting room. He’s got his long coat on sans scarf and he is holding my bomber jacket out to me. I slip into it as he grabs a pair of helmets off the floor. He hands me one and slides the other over his head, leaving the chin strap dangling. Instead of asking any more questions, I follow him out to the street but not without noticing a complete lack of landlady. She knew and I’m not sure whether to find that hilarious or horribly embarrassing.

Right next to the door is an absolutely gorgeous black and chrome motorbike. I know it wasn’t there last night. I look up at my smirking partner who is fastening the strap on his helmet. “When?”

“Mycroft’s people dropped it off late last night. I thought you might enjoy a ride before I have to give it back.” Sherlock informs me as he swings his leg over the machine. I pull off my helmet in order to kiss him then replace it, fix the strap and clamber onto the back of the bike without thinking twice. I settle my hands onto Sherlock’s hips, but he grabs them and pulls my arms tighter around himself as he starts the bike with a kick. The engine roars to life.

He calls out “Hold on!” We fly away from the flat and I start laughing, ready for whatever happens next. I’m going to make him sit down and tell me _everything_ , but in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translation: http://ficbook.net/readfic/2136985


End file.
